


Iron Horse

by CaptainCorgi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Acquaintances to Begrudging Respect to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Badass Hanzo Shimada, Badass Jesse McCree, Centaur!Jesse, Centaurs, Deadlock Jesse McCree, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Steampunk, Western AU, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-10-13 14:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCorgi/pseuds/CaptainCorgi
Summary: Jesse “Deadeye” McCree, wanted outlaw, fastest hand in the West, and card shark extraordinaire, just robbed his last train. Caught, jailed, sentenced and shipped off to a penal colony to live out the rest of his miserable days, but Fate is fickle and Mother Nature does enjoy her thunderstorms. So crash-landed on a beach, still clad in leg irons, Jesse stared down the razor sharp edge of a sword at an angry man with the most arrogant cheekbones he’s ever seen. The Old West is behind him and the Land of the Rising Sun is all that lies ahead.





	1. Come Apart

**Author's Note:**

> aka "Horse Time!" as this story has colloquially become known on Twitter.
> 
> This started as a piece for the McHanzo Big Bang but we become too impatient to remain contained. 
> 
> CHECK OUT NICKU'S WONDERFUL, SOFT ART:  
> [Concepts](https://twitter.com/NickuTried/status/1084945542948491265)  
> [Smooches](https://twitter.com/NickuTried/status/1086455828436127746)

**** “That’s the last of them,” Miller, a beanstalk of a man, huffed. The rail tie he dragged along slipped out of his hands. One hundred pounds of solid oak slammed into the ground.

“Watch it!” Nelson snapped, his chestnut hind end jumping away. His unshod hooves crunched in the gravel. 

“Stop. Both of ya!”

Nelson’s crooked scowl turned. “Whatever.”

Stood as an imposing figure, broad-chested and the barrel of a single shot rifle propped over his shoulder, Jesse “Deadeye” McCree, wanted outlaw, fastest hand in the West and card shark extraordinaire raised his scared brow. “Say again?”

“Whatever boss,” Nelson grumbled the response. His rear hoof knocked against a rail tie.

The click of a hammer being cocked followed.

“Nelson,” Jesse’s revolver barrel pressed until wrinkles formed in Nelson’s weather skin.

Around them, the gang fell quiet. The wind caught and tugged at the hairs of both men and centaur. Long grasses rustled with solely the faintest thunder of the train’s engine in the far off distance. 

“Whatever, McCree,” Nelson’s tone was subdued.

“Thank ya,” Jesse smiled, released the hammer and stored the revolver. He shuffled to stand beside the other man, dropping his free arm around Nelson’s shoulders. “We have some time before that train shows up and the boys worked hard to get this barricade set up. So I think’n I’ve got time to tell you that that debt you owed for the time in Santa Fe is good and paid off.”

“Thanks,” Nelson hesitated, his upper body supertiously attempting to pull away.

“Welcome,” Jesse's arm slipped off, his palm patted Nelson's shoulder once. “Now say goodbye to the boys.”

“Wha-?”

In a second the rifle swung around, Jesse jammed the barrel under Nelson's chin and fired. The shot reverberated off the surrounding sparse prairie. A handful of twiggy trees hardly carried noise. And the whistle of the train growing closer quickly drowned out the last traces of the shot's echo.

Jesse shouldered the rifle, shoved the lifeless body away and watched Nelson's legs twist, turn, and finally crumble under their weight.

“Train’s coming. Get in position,” with pinkie in his ear trying to pick out the ringing, Jesse barked, head tilted. “And Wilkerson!”

“McCree!” The perfectly average, perfectly forgettable man snapped to military attention.

“Get rid of the waste. Damned buzzards will give us away.”

From one beat to the next the men’s a stunned stillness evolved into a flurry of activity. Any lingering exhaustion over hauling and staking the rail ties disappeared with the crack of the rifle shot. Orders were shouted while men took their positions. Nelson’s body was tied up, dragged off, and dumped into the river with a weighted saddlebag. Jesse merely oversaw. He reloaded the rifle, stored the weapon over his shoulder, doubled checked his pistol then trotted down the line checking or otherwise barking at his men.

The plan was simple enough.

The barricade of road ties wasn’t hard to spot out on this more open stretch of prairie. The track rounded a high hill that blocked the view of this portion of the rail. Tall grasses and brown coats gave the gang a mediocrum of camouflage. The single factory of uncertainty lay with the positioning of the barrier itself; too close to the curve and the train would crash, too far and they ran the risk of the conductor increasing speed to barrel through. It wasn’t a new one, the barricade. Jesse had used this tactic before. Learned it from his father. But tried and true also ran the risk of being exploited. And the conductors, of late, where getting wise to the old tricks.

In truth, the reason for this heist was desperation. Nelson’s insubordination came as a harsh reminder. 

But Jesse hadn't lied. The man's debt had been paid back; just it had happened a few weeks ago, not recently. Deadlock's retention rate wasn't something to write home about so keeping the men around with half lies had become the norm.

Closer now the massive steam engine’s pillar of smoke was a distinct column. Soon now.

“Positions!” Jesse twisted on his hind legs, rearing up, scanning the gang as they scattered. A sight he had seen before many times. But watching the men hunker down and the grasses slow to a gentle wave, the disappearing act was impressive. He stared at the hill, catching the shine of the burnished metal of the freight engine turning. From affair, he knew how he looked - a blur on the horizon of a man on a horse. So he took a moment and stared at the outline of the train, searching for a pilot and finding none. 

With a smirk, Jesse trotted off the rail line. The dusty metal of his prosthetic front leg crunched in the gravel creating an uneven four beat step. His men were hunkered down.

The train drew nearer — a massive beast of metal and steam built through sweat and blood. Barreling down the rails at a speed that put most horses to shame, the engine was a marvel. That such a creation hauled a hundred tons with ease wasn't an achievement to dismiss. Pity then that the cargo was so valuable.

Jesse positioned himself by the barricade, rifle casually held and hindquarters catacorner with the rail ties. His hat tipped to a jaunty angle — his devastating grin smeared across his tanned leather face; too many teeth and ill intent hidden behind a bristly beard and a confident gaze. In the dying breeze, his tail lazily waved, flicked at flies drawn to his dark raw umber hide twitched unconsciously.

The tingle of a bell rang in his ears initially — the first forewarning.

He held his stance, glanced from one side to the other checking on the men in their hidey holes. 

But the train didn’t appear to be slowing down.

Jesse raised his free hand, pressed against his forehead. The rough texture of the rawhide glove scratched at his skin. The brim of his Stetson lifted; a perfect imitation of the surprise that slowly morphed over his cocksure expression.

The bell turned to a deep, bellowing whistle.

And the train wasn’t slowing down.

“Shit,” Jesse cursed, leaping off the track. The freight engine barreled through their hastily constructed barrier. The impact shook the very air around them. Curses from his men became lost, smothered by the crash of thousands of pounds of steel and dry rot infested rail ties. Wood cracked and split; splinters shot to the sides and behind the train. His men scrambled. Some screamed while others were eerily quiet.

Jesse snarled, hooves twisted the prairie grasses, and his eyes closed right against the dust and debris in the air. The tug of the train soaring by nearly tipped him over. The rush of wind clawed at his larger jacket, tried to rip the hat from his head and the hairs from his tail. 

“McCree!”

His head snapped towards the cry as a shotgun shell tore through the ground inches from his hooves. Jesse traced the trajectory up. Two men stood between cars: black hats, grim faces and one smoking shotgun riding away.

Rangers.

“Mount up boys! Jefferson with me!” Jesse didn't wait, breaking into a dead gallop. He raced alongside, didn’t glance back to see whether or not Jefferson did as told. Instead, he swung the rifle around, held against his chest and took aim. Another shotgun ripped through the ground to his right. Jesse jolted, legs bucked up, and corrected with teeth gritted. The chug of the train fell to the background. So too did the second then third shotgun blasts. And the shouts of the Rangers became his sole focus. 

The world stood still between one breath and the next.

Jesse lined up the shot, stared down the sight and fired. The man leaning further out opened his mouth in a wordless death keel and tumbled out of the carriage. A black hat rolled down alongside the body.

Jefferson's whooping cry tore his attention away, breaking his concentration.

At the moment he came back to himself, Jesse felt the rush of the train to his right flank and the crunch of the ground and gravel beneath his hooves. His legs continued to run subconsciously. Keeping alongside, Jesse cocked, rechambered a shell and took a second shot. It wasn’t lined up as well nor did he take the time to breathe. The bullet hit wide, bouncing off the brass varnished handlebar beside the second lawman’s hand. Jesse swore, his steps stuttered for a half second while swinging the rifle over his shoulder. 

The Ranger retaliated with two quick, sharp shots of the shotgun. The first missed. The second didn’t. Jefferson screamed, his front legs twisted and he crumpled head first. Jesse watched from his periphery. His revolver - Peacekeeper - flew from the holster, taking three shots at the lawman ducked away attempting to reload hastily.

The train barreled onward. 

And Jesse's hooves beat the ground. His lungs itched with the ache that came before the burn of overexertion. But two chests gave room for two sets of lungs, and he knew what limits his body could endure, knew that the train might continue, a single-minded beast was driven towards its destination by the coal-stained, beaten hands of its conductor, and that he had a handful of miles at most to reach the cargo this steel monster carried.

The lawman leaned out, shotgun leveled.

Jesse fired, watched as the bullet took the Ranger between his beady eyes. This time the body fell backward, and the weapon clattered to the platform. With a whoop, Jesse grinned. Too many teeth and using the pounding of his hooves as an internal beat, he poured energy to his limbs to draw even where the lifeless body do the lawman lie splayed. Jesse shoved the revolver into its holster, double checked she was strapped in snuggly. He prayed to whatever foul gods lesser men believed in and leaped.

His metal prosthetic landed first, the limb twisted sideways to hook around the railing. His other leg and arms strained, tugged his massive body up. The barrel of his rifle smacked the roof of the platform. A tin whine that made his ears echo. His rear hooves found purchase even as the train's speed tried to reprimand and punish his foolishness, wind clawing at his tail, his hindquarters. 

Standing, chest tight, Jesse caught his breath. He stared around the corner of the train car catching sight of his men. They rode on ragged mounts, horses stolen from old military men and unafraid of the steam engine; easy to replace should they be run rough and the score on this train gathered. He signaled, one hand, pointing towards the tail end of the train. The men would board from there. He waited for a beat while the men veered, Miller at the head, relaying Jesse's order.

Peacekeeper found her home in his palm once more. Jesse kicked in the carriage door. The wood splintered easily under the impact of his steam-powered appendage. Natural light streamed through the dozen open windows. Jesse stared down at just as many frightened faces. The passengers huddled together or glared with ineffective defiance.

“Aight folks! Ya know the drill. Valuables in the aisle,” he ducked his front half into the car. The top of his hat brushed the roof. This carriage made with only humans in mind. “Stow the ideas of heroics partner.” Jesse pointed his revolver at a man in a bowler with a harsh frown. “Hand where I can see it. Good deal bud. No no, madam, keep that. I ain't so cruel.” He waved with the other at an older lady about to tug a wedding ring off.

The rest of the passengers did as told, and Jesse looked on. Only once Miller barged through the opposite door did Jesse tip his hat up with Peacekeeper.

“Kind ya boys to drop in,” he let the derisive chuckle cover the crawl along his spine.

“Back cars are clear,” Miller responded, already ordering two other men to begin picking up what jewelry and paper bills the passengers had tossed to the aisle.

“Trust ya boys to finish here then,” Jesse tipped his hat, winked at the couple nearest the door. Middle-aged, the woman clinging to the husband's hand, and the man's salt pepper beard with a jaw set in a stern, smartly contained anger made Jesse laugh. His age and happily married it seemed; he loathed them. “Ma'am. Sir,” Jesse bowed backward, shuffled around and stepped over the rattling chain and space between cars.

Jesse tightened his grip on Peacekeeper. His glove groaned under his pressure on revolver grip. The warped, pockmarked glass panels on the carriage door showed only a distorted image of the interior. But the lack of retaliating fire concerned and assured him in equal measures. If this train hired just the two Rangers to protect their cargo, then they were far shorter-sighted than Jesse gave the rail line company credit. Little security intrigued him. Either the load then wasn’t what the dossier denoted, or this was merely a passenger train. Both were unacceptable. Jesse didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, instead of straightening his back before rearing, his prosthetic smashed into the door.

Wood didn’t hold up to steam-powered steel and half a ton of centaur muscle.

The empty interior of the train car stared back. Jesse cursed then ducked inside. His men would be bothered with the passengers for a few more minutes yet. The roof of these cars wasn't designed with his kind in mind. Forced to stoop forward, he moved through the empty rows of fancy cloth covered seats. The oil lamps along the walls sat unlit. The blinds were drawn on every window. What little natural light could peek in underneath the shades wasn't enough to alleviate the odd creeping feeling that crawled along his spine.

His senses screamed to leave, to backpedal and come up with some half-cocked excuse for the gang to take what they could. The hideout was a day ride east over mostly prairie and ranch lands. They had brought along fresh horses -

The wild hoot of his men jerked Jesse from the roundabout self-doubt. He didn't dare look over his shoulder; instead forced his legs to move forward. Running came with an admittance Jesse wasn't prepared for and couldn't have now. His head convinced (even as his mind continued to balk) he stepped inside. The carpet lined aisle muffled his hoofbeats only just. Jesse’s steps took him quickly to the other side. Occasionally his withers smacked the edge of the benches. The simple wood design overlaid with patterned fabrics mocked him for the bruises he might sport later; a memory of their gaudy designs.

Outside dry prairie morphed to deciduous forest. The rail would soon turn, taking a path twisted up and through the mountains. There was a stop just before then. At best, Jesse estimated, the gang had a handful of minutes before they needed to either jump or dare taking on whatever law enforcement attempted to waylay them at the next station.

Jesse reached out, glove wrapping around the silver handle, prepared to slide the door open when his men shouted again. The jubilation still echoed ecstatic in their voices. But he couldn’t make out the words. Choosing to take another glance -

His hind legs crumpled under their own weight.

A heavy pressure bloomed from his flank. 

Blinking, he looked for the source, his gaze finding the beginning of a trickle of blood.

His mind was slow to process that he stared at an impact wound. Jesse turned to find Miller standing with a smoking Winchester. Over his shoulder, Jesse could make out the rest of the men. Somewhere his mind statically recalled hearing a shot and the accompanying sound of a woman screeching.

“That was for Nelson,” Miller said, cocking the rifle. Jesse watched the spent bullet pop and fly to disappear amongst the empty seats.

“What?” Jesse’s hands grabbed for the closest benches. 

“What he’s trying to say - ” Beans started over Miller’s shoulder.

“We are done taking orders from ya Jesse.” Miller cut in. 

“Now fellas,” Jesse winced, raising his hands despite how the shift made his hinder quarters collide with solid wood again. His heart pounded in his chest; both chests and echoed like oncoming thunder in his ears. “This ain’t necessary - “

“You’re wrong Jesse,” Miller stepped forward, the rifle lowered by his waist.

Two shots rang out.  _ Peacekeeper  _ leveled at Miller’s chest and Miller’s Winchester smoking at the end of the barrel.

Jesse growled, jaw grinding, catching sight of the second puncture in his left wither. The chestnut fur steadily stained a deep crimson. 

“That was for Beans,” Miller shrugged a shoulder. The stocky body of the gang cook slid down. Wide, surprised eyes stared out from a pockmarked, ragged brunette face. A single, bloody hole oozed in the man’s forehead.

“Well shit,” Jesse stumbled again. “I missed.”

This time the bench couldn’t hold his weight. His hindquarters and chest smashed through the train bench like so much kindling. Splinters and strips of decorated wood pierced his hide like a pin cushion. His breath forced from his lungs for a split second, he stared at the ceiling noticing, for the first time, the decorative, geometric copper inlay. 

It was odd how there was merely pressure where the bullets entered. He was certain they hadn’t exited. His hide wasn’t thick but a winter coat and a half ton of muscle catered to impressive stopping power. In the back of his mind, Jesse knew the bullets would need to be removed lest infection set in. He also knew, in a sort of giddy realization, that the chance of seeing a doctor was null to one.

“McCree,” Miller growled.

“What?” Jesse rasped. 

“Ya had to know this was coming.”

“I figured,” Jesse shifted, head falling back against the rattling door frame. “Just didn't think y'all had the guts. Bunch of lunkheads.”

“You ain't in a position to be making insults,” Miller's expression tightened.

“I ain't in a position to do a lot a things 'cept bleed out.” Jesse barked out in a terrible, sickened gasp of a laugh. “Can't shoot my way out 'cause y'all got me outmanned.”

“We ain't gonna kill ya.”

“Didn't figure ya would -” Jesse paused between words long enough to catch the eye of each man he could see behind Miller and through the rear windows “ - for the sentimental types.”

“Ya done right by us during the last few years but -”

“How're you splitting it?” He was irate, on edge and, unwilling to admit, frightened.

Miller didn’t answer. Instead another voice - Carlson, a milestonemonger who, unfortunately, hung around - pipped in. “Equal shares for each man.”

“Mighty noble sentiments,” Jesse nodded, eyes closed.

“It’s enough that we don't have to keep going like this,” Miller bristled like a cornered dog, justifying his actions in a way Jesse found comical. With a bounty as steep as his, it was only a matter of time before the Reaper came calling; just kind of never figured that hand would be played by his own men.

Deadlock wasn’t much of a gang. They robbed and looted and plundered from banks, trains, and safes yet the men weren’t monsters. They were fathers, brothers, sons. Most of their haul went back to the families or less fortunate. Certainly, they smuggled guns and opium. They weren’t perfect. But the war was a plague that still Each member had their vices that the loot feed. But the law didn’t care about the good. Only about catching the bad. Deadlock was an easy target with a simple name and poorly hand-drawn wanted posters meant to give the boogie man a face.

“But ya ain’t going to kill me?” Jesse gulped in a breath, vision fuzzy around the edges. Miller cocked the rifle. The Winchester leveled once more by his waist.  _ Peacekeeper _ sat like a leaden weight in Jesse’s hand. He was unable to bring the revolver up or around. The other gang members stayed by the entrance. Clanging chains and the rattle of wheels over tracks vaguely reached Jesse’s ears. 

“No,” Miller said. The cold metal of the rifle pressed against Jesse’s chin. 

Pressure against his throat and Miller’s insistence made Jesse meet the other man’s gaze. A moment stretched out, one laborious heartbeat became an entire lifetime. The Winchester bobbed to the left.

“And this, McCree, is because I felt like it.”

The rifle fired. Jesse felt the bullet penetrate his shoulder. His body falling into the remains of the crushed bench. His breaths coming out in gasps. The pressure in three parts of his body too much and kicking his fight or flight into action with the vain notion to escape. He shoved the desperation down.

“Good to know you got me a farewell present,” Jesse forced a grin, all teeth, sharp and condescending even as his vision began to darken.

The last thing he saw was Miller's irate brow and pursed frown.

**\-- -- -- -- --**

**\-- -- -- -- --**

Jesse groaned, his four legs splayed out to maintain balance against the heavy rocking deck. Irons strung between his hind legs jangled, pulled taut and made him stumble. His shoulder smacked one of the vertical beams.

“I hate sailing,” he growled, swayed and retched. What splattered across the planks barely counted as soup and tasted bitter, foul but better the second time around. Horses in the pen beside him eyed the mess and listlessly watched his lunch crawl and ooze over their hooves.

The brig was converted and crammed full of trade goods. Textiles, guns, ammunition, and tobacco stacked in burn labeled wooden crates. The duo rot iron cells contained what was deemed fragile and irreplaceable. He wasn’t either. And that ship was turned to an impromptu prison transport exemplified that sentiment.

Water leaked from creaking boards. Waves smacked the hull of the ship on both sides. Jesse’s legs barely kept him upright. Three shook with exhaustion from the time the sailors and ship fought the storm going on outside. A monsoon or tsunami or something. He had heard the word tossed around while the man deemed his jailor mucked slop into a bucket and called the  _ animals _ in the cargo hold fed. Seeing that same slop on the floor, curling around his hooves, Jesse gagged again. His head hung low, hair a tangled mess with his tail not much better. The horses he was housed with nickered in mild annoyance to the rocking ship. 

Closing his eyes didn’t help. It only made him hyper-aware of everything; the smell of his  _ meal _ , the bored horses, his own disgusting hide, and, especially, the stink of rotten limes.

The bandage around his throat hung half off. The scabbed skin underneath burned with the promise of infection. His prosthetic limb had frozen three days ago. Two weeks locked in the cargo hold without his usual maintenance routine in damp conditions had seized the internal mechanisms. The leg was useless; nothing more than a glorified walking cane.

After the incident on the train, he woke to irate commands as well as a lawman prodding him with a cattle prong. He cursed but clambered to his feet. Hands tied in front with back legs hobbled, Jesse ignored the pains of his gunshot wounds in favor of fiery anger and indignation. His usual charisma was dead and buried.

They led him before a scowl browed judge.

His trial was a mere formality.

His sentence was expected; hang till his neck snapped or his feet quit kicking. 

And they hadn’t wasted time. Jesse had been lead to the gallows that same evening. The crowd of the usual death parade couldn’t have been bothered it seemed. A handful of faces watched him limp up the stairs to stand over the trap door. 

The usual prayers and well wishes for his soul and Godspeed made him scoff. 

“I stopped believing in the Almighty a while ago,” he had grinned with gritty teeth.

A woman in the crowd gasped.

The hemp rope settled around his throat.

The trap door snapped open.

And so did the hangman’s noose.

Jesse had landed in the dirt coughing, spitting and cursing. His legs kicked out.

The security had rushed forward, prodded him to his feet and marched him back up the gallows. Only to have the same result twice more; a quick drop and sudden snap. 

In the end, the judge stated that the damages to the town property weren’t worth the neck of one, measly cattle rustler and train robber. Jesse had been shoved into a cell with a glass of water. They left him there for two days without food before the guard dragged him out.

The judge’s new ruling of shipping him off to the island penal colony had made Jesse’s blood run cold. He loathed ships. It was why he stayed inland. It was why he ran Deadlock from Nevada to New Mexico. 

A vicious wave slammed the broadside. Jesse’s body smacked the nearest support beam. He yelped, ribs burning with short, quick gasps for breath. Adrenaline and fear hide the pain but the stutter in his inhales told of internal breaks and bruises. All parsed out in a matter of moments. The storm brutalized the vessel. For once, with this newest assault, his equine companions looked frightened. The whites of their eyes shone in the dimness of the cargo hold. Their hooves shuffled and breaths came in ragged exhales.

Jesse stared at his unfortunate companions and scoffed. “Idiots.”

Cursing the stupid horseflesh helped for a brief moment.

Thunder boomed. Sailors shouted. That was Jesse’s warning before the acrid smell of burning pitch made him gag and the ceiling of the hold collapsed in on itself. The main mast smashed through the decks. The thick, single piece of timber pierced straight through to the bottom. His brained took a moment to realize the situation. The ocean rushed in, furious and greedy to claim the ship and all its contents as a tribute.

The ocean rushed in, furious and greedy to claim the ship and all its contents as a tribute. His hooves frantically scrapped over the rapidly soaked deck floor. The horses neighed, frightened, the whites of their eyes bright and eerie and in sharp contrast with the darkness of the brig. Through the hole, Jesse caught flashes of the storm. Lightning allowed him the briefest idea as to the chaos above deck. The body rocked sharply to the port side. Jesse's body jerked in the same direction. His hobbled legs abruptly stopped his movement.

His front hooves slipped askew, slamming Jesse's chest and shoulders into the floor.

“Cut the horses loose!” Someone screamed above him.

Two bodies, backlit by the storm, slide down the broken mast.

“Cut me loose!” Jesse rattled the rope. Desperation crawled along his spine like the water that now licked at his underbelly.

The two men ignored his demands. They cut through the harness tethers. One jerked the horses’ heads down while the other shoved the frightened beasts through the hole in the deck. Hooves and spindly legs slipped and clattered on the broken main mast. Men above pulled the horses through, the massive bodies disappearing one at a time. Boxes of cargo broke free or their holdings snapped jostled in the quickly encroaching ocean.

“You can’t leave me down here!” Jesse shouted, his legs pulled the hobbles to their limits. His body shook; from the chill in the water and fear clawing at his insides. His words seemed half drowned in the frenzy. He watched as, after the horses were out, one man clambered away. The other glanced over at him and laughed.

“Cut me loose!” Jesse forced his voice to steady even as his body tremored.

“Can’t,” the man barked back. In the deep dark of the storm, his yellowed, crooked teeth formed a sickly, demonic smile.

“Bullshit!”

“Don’t have time!” The man scrambled up the main mast.

Jesse cursed after him.

The water sloshed around his withers. Pain in his chest faded to the background under his panic to escape. Gritting his teeth, Jesse turned, forced his body to twist to slam the prosthetic on the hobble. Instead of the hiss and power he excepted, the mechanical piece simply didn’t respond. In the blackness, Jesse’s eyes couldn’t see. The prosthetic was steam powered. Being fully submerged in the salt of seawater had undoubtedly shorted the circuits. 

A massive swell tore down into the hold. Water wrapped around his body, tugging him down and tossing him against the ship's support beams. Bruises and broken ribs didn't matter. His wordless screams were drowned out by the roar of the storm. 

With barely a moment between his last gasping inhale and being submerged, Jesse sought out some last minute miracle. Frantic energy to survive diverted to search for something, anything to break his legs free. But he hadn't taken in enough air. And he couldn't see in the murk of the ocean. And his hands found only secured, massive beams or broken wooden boxes.

Bumped and jostled, his lungs burning, Jesse found his body twisted to face the rolling clouds and cracked lightning above the broken main mast. At that moment, the panic faded away. His body fell still. The quiet of inevitability overwhelming every other emotion. Jesse found himself accepting it. The cruel irony of dying to the one force of nature he loathed and actively avoided wasn’t lost. Even at the expense of losing what precious oxygen his lungs clung to greedily, Jesse barked out a laugh.

The ocean rushed in.

He choked. The ship rolled to port and the main mast rolled with the motion. Time slowed, with his mind half conscious, Jesse heard the crack then the boom of the heavy timber tearing through the tranverse frame. More water followed, swept in from below to whip Jesse’s tail and meager clothing around. His legs jerked with the currents. His body buoyed upwards, knocked into the framework. The bulkhead slammed into his back, pushed down, dragging Jesse with the undertow. His legs kicked out and his eye widened.

Jesse kicked again, desperation took command and guided his actions. The singular goal to survive drove him then. Turning in the dark waters, Jesse’s hand followed the main mast, hands strained to find holds while his hooves lashed out, again and again, battling the ocean. Tossed and battered, in the briny deep gun callouses found the splintered hole in the ship’s hull. Jesse hauled his body through. Jagged edges catch and torn into his clothing, his flesh, his legs. Blackness faded into and out of his peripherals. His hands grasped at nothing, propelling his body upwards against the tides and its own fatigue.

Breaking the surface, Jesse gasped.

“Jesus Mary Mother of Joseph!” Without lights and nothing to hold onto, Jesse flailed to keep his head above the torrent. Underneath the water, the severity of the storm was understated. He choked and gargled on curses. His lower body too bulky and not meant for treading water tugged him downward. The prosthetic hung limp and useless underneath him; an unfortunate and impromptu anchor.

Something dense slammed into his back. Without thought, Jesse grasped at it, scrambled for a foot or handhold on the object. In the black of night, he couldn’t tell what part of the ship he found, only that it kept him above the waterline. Bobbing on the impromptu liferaft, he gulped down air greedily like a beggar finally given sustenance. His hands wrapped around the rough texture of the rope and tugged his body further up. His useless metal leg flopped on the wood. His other scrambled to maintain a hold. Hooves were magnificent for long distance running, absolutely terrible for grappling. Water pounded over his head and battered his body.

Even in the swells, the bitter rasp of rope rubbed against his bare knuckles demanded Jesse’s immediate attention. His mind snapped back.  _ The hobble _ . Desperation clouded his mind once more but it took on a singular focus. The wood could hold his weight. His rear legs swung underneath, kicked until the forward momentum brought the remains of the hobble to the surface. Partially frozen hands grabbed at the rope, tugged it up and Jesse wrapped it around his forelegs. Even sealed, the hemp cut into the soaked fur and spindly bones, and Jesse bit the inside of his cheek against the pain. With a second and third cautionary tug, he considered himself secure; as good as could be gotten as the storm continues to rage and the waves battered his beaten body. 

“Lord Almighty, if you're feeling funny -” Jesse gasped, saltwater siphoned down his raw throat. “Fucking save me.”

The prayer went unanswered. The storm tossed him like a ragdoll, and Jesse simply held on. His eyes stung from the salt and each breath was a ragged gasp. Inhaling both water and air into lungs that fought against bruised, likely cracked ribs, Jesse focused on staying awake. Vision in his right eye was hazy at best. Keeping his eyes open and his sense alert was key to surviving; so too were the numerous pleaded prayers to the Almighty with language that would’ve made his father tan his ass and his mother blush brighter than cherry pie. But the rope held and his hands were locked in their death grip.

As the storm roared itself out, Jesse’s entire body pleaded for a respite. The wreck of the ship was nowhere in sight. But underneath the rising sun, he spied shore within swimming distance. It wasn’t the rescue he prayed for, yet there was, perhaps, something to be said for cursing the forces that be into saving his pathetic hide.

“Good thing I didn’t promise you, my eternal soul,” Jesse wheezed while his hind legs weakly kicked. He began to drift in and out of consciousness. It was sheer force of will that kept his body on course for land.

When his hooves hit the sandbank, Jesse tugged off the ropes, letting them fall into the ocean. The tides could take the raft and hemp wherever they saw fit. He didn’t care. This was land and his three-legged hops belayed the mixture of contained elation and pure relief. He didn’t care where he was or who might find him. Surviving the ship and the raging ocean was miraculous enough. Jesse counted his lucky stars, stepped the last bit to put the rolling water behind him. Ahead a thin dense strand of trees loomed up.

In the morning light, with the serene call of seabirds, Jesse dragged himself off the sand to collapse in the sweet smelling grasses. In the moment of realization that he wasn’t dead, Jesse stared at the tops of unfamiliar trees and listened to the rasp of his breaths. They drowned out the innocuous chitter of the native critters. His prosthetic was useless. With the final bit of energy, Jesse disengaged the metal, screamed at the sharp shock of pain when the nerves disconnected and let the appendage lie where it dropped. Then fell over himself. Eyes closed, exhaustion crept in to lay claim to Jesse’s consciousness. His injuries could wait.

He gladly almost eagerly embraced the darkness.

What time passed was a mystery but Jesse awoke to a pinch on his shoulder. Watery, clouded gaze turned up to stare down the business end of a sword. Following the line of hard steel, Jesse stared up the razor sharp edge at an angry man with the most arrogant cheekbones he’s ever seen and grinned.

“Hey darling,” he croaked, brows wiggled half-heartedly. “At least I’ll die to a pretty face.” Jesse coughed, his mind threatened to drag his awareness back down. The stranger’s brow pursed, face pinched and Jesse watched the sword swing upwards as his consciousness retreated again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update to Horse Time!
> 
> Please accept this humble chapter as an apology for the wait.
> 
> **ALSO:** In which we get to meet Jesse's arch-nemesis... c:

Tiny claws dung into his hindquarters.

“Stop that!” Jesse snapped.

An impassive, heterochromatic gaze deadpanned in return; evenly matched opponents engaged in a silent contest of force of will. Jesse’s adversary didn't blink yet Jesse did and in that half-second needle, sharp points pierced his rear.

“Goddamnit, ya mangy cunt! Off with you!” Jesse’s hind legs scrapped the odd, straw flooring attempting to buck off the offender. Blood trickled from eighteen identical, tiny holes staining both Jesse’s coat and bandages. Hissing, the cat fled, tail erect and ears pressed down. Its calico coat and bobbed ivory nub dashed from the room. Padded footsteps covered the pitter-patter of the feline’s retreat. “Ya flea-bitten rag.” Jesse prodded at the newest injuries, hissing when his calloused fingers caught on the ragged edges of his split hide.

Left alone, cries from sea birds and the whistle of breezes off the water niggled under his skin. A few days he'd been confined to this one room within sight of the ocean. The waves felt like mocking voices. They taunted him with their peacefulness whilst the shipwreck and its horror hung at the forefront of his mind. Thrice now he had awoken from restless slumber, running from images of frothing water and raging thunder. Drenched in sweat, the old man would enter, demand Jesse to lie still then go about changing the fouled bandages with a disapproving crease in his brow.

“You are awake, Kirin-san,” a cracked voice carried a bemused chuckle. Soft feet clothed in odd, even-toed socks shuffled over the straw flooring. An older man, hair streaked through with gray, tied into a tight queue, stood in the doorway holding a lacquered wooden tray. From his viewpoint, Jesse couldn’t see the contents of the bowls atop the tray. The smell, however, gave his stomach something to consider. 

“Kirin-san?” Jesse knew he butchered the pronunciation when the answer was a light chuffing laugh.

“Kirin-san,” the man reiterated, putting emphasis on the consonants.

“Told ya, just call me McCree.”

“McCree?” The man tested the word. It was Jesse’s turn to wince.

They shared a moment, quiet between them before a chuckle broke that tension. Jesse’s was forced. The old man’s seemed genuine.

“Eat,” the old man nodded towards the tray, then knelt and settled on his knees. A movement that might have jostled the items barely caused a ripple in the bowl; Jesse counted himself impressed. “Here.” A pair of wood sticks hung in the air.

“What?”

“Eat.”

Jesse glanced from the various dishes. The wood sticks were shoved under his nose. The man grunted and pointed to the food with his other hand. Jesse’s brows raised to his hairline in question. 

“Eat.”

“A’ight, a’ight,” he grumbled and took the sticks. He held them tightly. The old man leaned away, hands folded in his lap and quietly observed. Jesse felt a beat of sweat dribbled down his neck. The ridiculousness of the being nervous boiled beneath his skin. Or it could be the heat of a cloudless sky on the other side of the paper-thin walls Jesse’s rational mind reminded him.

Sticks in hand, Jesse stared at the tray. Atop it, a small feast sat laid out. Three bowls, one with rice and an egg, one with a brownish viscous paste and the last contained a foggy liquid with floating green bits. The platter in the middle presented a full grilled fish, unseeing eye and everything with mouth agape.

“Eat.”

“You going to explain…?” Jesse let the statement hang. He held the wooden sticks, one in each hand, gaze darting from them to his host then back. The old man answered with a neutral facade. Jesse got the distinct impression of being mocked. “Right.” Jesse drawled, tongue clicking and twirled the stick in his left hand. In his handful of coherent days before this, the food provided had been porridges and soups, meals that could be sipped without much effort. 

He stabbed the fish, watched the head and tail twitch. The stick tugged free a morsel of white flesh. Grill marks and seared skin clung to the clump and jiggled on the end of the stick. Jesse brought the whole of it up, just in front of his mouth. It didn't taste like much, firewood, smoke and nothing else. The freshness shouldn't have been a surprise but fish was a rarity in the sun-baked desert. Jesse didn't necessarily revel in the taste, he offered a hum of appreciation, head bent forward over the tray with his gaze twisted to catch a fleeting smirk on his host’s expression.

The sticks were impractical though. Jesse made do best he could. Mindful of any pin bones, the fish was decimated in a few hearty bites. Bits and pieces still clung to the spine. Jesse held back picking up the whole and chomping down on the rest like a rib bone. He twisted the plate so the head faced his host with its sightless eye.

That left the threes bowls; rice, soup, and paste.

“How?” Jesse held up the stick.

“Miso,” the old man grunted, finger pointed at the liquid. He produced a spoon from inside one of his voluptuous sleeves. 

“Soup then?”

“Miso.”

“A’ight,” Jesse grumbled incredulously, taking the spoon the old man waved. “Ya could just speak plain.”

“Up to this point, I believe I have been,” the old man said, a sly grin twitched the grays of his manicured facial hair.

Jesse’s mouth hung slack-jawed, caught between surprise and annoyance. The spoon hung in the air, the foggy soup and bits of green drifted across the surface. A small cube of some white, jiggly food nestled in the bottom of the concave spoon. His mind rolled through their conversation, brief though it had been, trying to find a hint he might’ve missed concerning this man’s better grasp of his language then he first considered.

“Funny guy,” Jesse muttered. He brought the spoon up, sipped at the hot soup and smacked his lips when the heat singed the hairs on his tongue. The dish wasn’t unpalatable but there was a certain lack of any vibrant flavors; no smokey taste like the fish had. He swallowed a few spoonfuls, gaze focused on his grinning host. The old man sat there, hands pressed on his bent thighs, quiet and observing. Jesse tugged at a particularly large piece of the green plant, held it between his teeth before ingesting. It wasn’t unpleasant. He couldn’t immediately place what the taste was other than salty.

The old man stayed silent. He didn’t twitch, still as a statue. In truth it was unnerving and Jesse bit his tongue a handful of times to keep the snide remarks in check. This man had opened his house to a shipwrecked wretch; Jesse wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. (And, yes, the pun was intentional.) So he ate without further complaint. He tipped the bowl against his lips and gulping down the last droplets moments later. The spoon dropped into the empty bowl. That left the rice and the strange food paste. Jesse looked at both then heft a sigh.

“Wouldn’t happen to have something else to eat with would ya?” He asked, holding up the two sticks, one in each hand.

“Those will do,” the old man nodded. His eyes were closed now, the age lines along his brow and cheeks eased nearly smooth yet his back was rigid.

“Right,” Jesse let the skepticism bleed into each letter. The sticks clattered on the tray. “Look, partner, I don’t want to come off as unappreciative or nothing but, unless you have some way of using these sticks you ain’t showing me, how do you suggest I use them to eat rice?”

“Grain by grain.”

“Come again?”

“There is no need to repeat myself.”

“Sure. Alright,” Jesse stabbed the stick into the rice. The jitter of wood hitting ceramic crawled up his arm. And, finally, he received a response. The old man’s wild, bushy eyebrows creased into a forward peak. Fast, sharp, Jesse didn’t see the action until he felt the sting. The yelp of pain came seconds later. Gun calloused fingers rubbed at the spot. Jesse glared, lips twisted into a sneer mimicking the forbearing, disapproving stare in his direction.

Innocuously a simply fan sat folded across the old man’s lap. It was ebony. Ivory flowers and birds were etched into the visible side. A long, slender series of strings hung from the base. The tail curled down and around to disappear over the side of the old man’s thigh. Perhaps beautiful if the object was immediately associated with the sting on the back of Jesse’s hand.

“You will eat.”

Jesse bristled at the command.

The old man glanced away, legs unfolded and standing with a single, liquid grace. Not a piece of linen or clothing out of place it seemed. Jesse maintained his stare with nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

The sting on his hand might’ve lessened but not the accompanied stab to his pride. Perhaps misplaced machismo yet a sense Jesse held onto in this strange place in a stranger’s house. A renegade lifestyle taught acts and appearances spoke louder than any boisterous attitude; Deadlock with its required facade of the infallible leader reinforced the notion. Years later it was a default fall back and comfortable mask to wear.

“Look, Mister, I’m mighty gracious for you taking me in and bandaging me and all but beating and ordering around isn’t something I appreciate,” Jesse managed to unclench his jaw enough to not seeth out the words.

“I understand,” the old man nodded, eyes closed, arms held before his chest. He tucked the fan away into the voluminous sleeves. “Be mindful of your hooves on the tatami Kirin-san.” He left Jesse befuddled, blinking, and forced to watch as the old man quietly stepped away. The sliding door whispered, moved with the bare push of fingertips.

“Wait wait!” Jesse’s upper body leaned forward. He groaned, winced, hand darting up to press against the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. The door slide shut. Wood paneling clicked into the furrows of a wood frame and left behind the perception of condescendence; the attitude of a parent disappointed in the child’s actions. Jesse bristled, jaw clenched and pushing down the sensation of being reprimanded. He rubbed at his hand again.

It wasn’t the first instance of the old man’s short temper or, what Jesse assumed, was a quick fuse. The old man never seemed truly angry though. There was, certainly, a crease in the wrinkled brow and purse to the old man’s chapped lips that bespoke of stern disapproval. Jesse mumbled, annoyed, staring at the delicate painting of gulls and tall grasses across the thin paper walls. Sunlight brightened the panes to a morose off white. Currently, the pane farthest from his sat open revealing the treeline and gave the briefest glimpses of the shore and ocean beyond. It was beautiful and miserable.

Adjusting, Jesse twisted to his side. Laid out on a simple, feather-stuffed mat (woven reeds or grasses that his hooves didn’t treat kindly), he settled into a more comfortable position; one that didn’t tug on his injuries or irritate the bandages. He slid the panel open, peering at the mid-afternoon sun. Sparse clouds lingered in the light blue of a promised calm sea. A wood walkway jutted out a foot and a half out from the foundation. From what Jesse knew, the walkway wrapped around the hut; the panels disappeared at both ends. Reed-thin grasses waved in the wind, creeping over dirt and sand yet manicured to a certain controlled chaos of natural and unnatural paths. 

There, from the corner of his view, Jesse watched the tell-tale tic-toc of the bobbed tail of a certain mangy cur. The feline patrolled the walkway, head up, ears forward and right under his nose. Jesse flicked his fingers at the cat's tail, gleefully smirking when the cat turned and glared.

“Ya earned that for early.” 

Despite how ridiculous getting into a staring match with a cat was, it was entertainment and Jesse was grateful for the distraction. Cooped up to this single room ate at the edges of his nerves. The beach and hut were a far cry from the open grasslands and plains of New Mexico and Nevada. Besides bodily necessities, Jesse didn't leave, merely shifted positions. Now, settled on his right, that left the bandaged end of his other foreleg propped in the air. The blunted end was wrapped in clean linen. He hadn't been told the current whereabouts of the limb, only that the old man had removed the prosthetic, given to a machinist then tended to the raw nerve endings.

Jesse rubbed at the stump, teeth gritted, feeling it twitch as if in revenge for being ignored. The cat sat off to the side licking its paw. After the needles passed, Jesse laid down, bare chest pressed over sun-warmed wood panels. He laid there, fingers making absent shapes against the wood grains. Feeling heat and fur pressed against his shoulder, Jesse closed his mouth and eyes when a feline butt made it's far too close to his face.

“Really?” He scoffed.

The cat mewled in answer, one paw lazily swatting at a swathe of ragged hair; one too many times waking to a pool of his own sweat had turned the hair into lengthy clumps.

“Yeah yeah,” he batted at the cat's paw in return.

To which the feline rolled and rubbed its body against his face.

“Rub it then why dontcha.” Jesse gently pushed the cat to watch it stutter step. His smirk fell a second later. The cat crouched, little bobtail twitching.

“No. Don't.”

The cat bounded, paws wrapped around his hair and yanked. The sharp claws of its back legs scraped his cheek.

“Damnit!” Jesse yelped. The cat let go. Touching the new scratches, he caught sight of the animal sat, once more cleaning itself, completely self-satisfied Jesse convinced himself. “You don't know the meaning of stop do ya, you little bastard.”

The cat responded with a meow and leaped off the walkway, trotting away head high. Watching the feline walk away without trouble felt like a slap in the face. Jesse groaned, buried his face in his hands to muffle a scream. He could feel it, the slow creep of cabin fever at the back of his mind. Nevermind the completely irrational and completely illogical envy he felt towards a cat of all damn things. He could move with three legs, yes, but the gait was awful and his left leg inevitably felt worn out after just a few minutes.

Minutes or an hour later, he lost track of time watching the cat dash across the beach between the reeds chasing birds and rodents Jesse heard voices carry on the breezes. One was instantly recognizable as his cantankerous host yet the other was unfamiliar. Now lying on his side, three limbs stretched out, Jesse lazily watched the silhouette of two people walking towards him along the cut in, dirt path from the shoreline. The old man leads while a younger man followed. The cat darted once more across the yard, stopped to stare at the two then leaped up into the younger man’s surprised arms. Jesse watched them share a silent chuckle. Jesse puffed stray hairs off his forehead as the duo stopped just short of the single stair up to the wrap-around walkway.

With one eye closed, Jesse’s perspective was incredibly skewed and no doubt his smirk and a half-hearted wave came off markedly sarcastic.

“Kirin-san,” the old man offered a slight bow. He stepped forward, slipped out of straw sandals and climbed to stand beside Jesse’s inelegant sprawled form. “ _ Watashi no mago. _ ”

“Howdy,” Jesse offered a mock, two-finger salute.

The newcomer’s creased brow and narrow expression portrayed a distinct lack of amusement. But, closer now, Jesse took a once over of this younger man and withheld his grunt of recognition. The same arrogant cheekbones as the man on the beach. Jesse hadn’t seen his rescuer since washing ashore delusional and sun stroked. The old man never offered an explanation for the young man’s disappearance. From the first day, Jesse believed the man was a figment.

He rolled over the waterlogged impression in his mind with the stoic man standing in front of him. The man’s hair was nearly immaculate save the few wisps of stray hairs the ocean winds tugged at. The man’s dress was impressive, a tailored outfit that, over the past few days Jesse had grown used to seeing in the old man, still resembled a dress when the wearing wasn’t in motion. A sword settled strapped to the man’s side and what Jesse gathered to be a bow nestled against the man’s back; the wooden limb of the weapon peeked over the man’s broad shoulder. 

But Jesse noted the severe expression on the man’s face.

The man inclined his head in a slight bow and muttered a string of words Jesse assumed were a typical pleasantry. Though the old man’s twitching smirk caused Jesse’s brows to raise.

“Yea…” Jesse drawled out, uncertain.

The old man smiled and his younger companion nodded once more. Then Jesse was ignored, made to watch the two men converse in words he didn’t understand and left with the distinct impression the cold shoulder was intentional.They stepped up and walked around Jesse’s bulk, the rough spun clothing the younger man wore brushed across the fresh wounds on Jesse’s hindquarters. He hissed and his hide twitched in discomfort. Neither turned around or acknowledged instead continuing to walk away deep in their own conversation.

Jesse deflated, tumbled forward to rest with his head over crossed arms, chin braced against his forearm. The tender pat of paws came seconds later. The damned cat staring at Jesse from the bottom of the stairs, bobbed nub twitching.

“Shooo!” His hand waved at the feline. In answer the cat leapt up, crawled over Jesse’s body and marched into the room. His protests turned to outraged screams when the feline turned, one paw hovered over the no doubt cold soup. The cat’s paw dipped inside and Jesse vainly attempted to stop. The mess that resulted, rice across the reed mats with soup staining the floors, Jesse lay out, eyes closed tight, arms akimbo and body aching, staring at the ceiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Nicku drives a Fish Truck. c:


End file.
